


To Be Prayed for While the World Doth Endure

by J_Baillier



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe - Historical, Anatomy, Angst, Doctor!John, Heresy, Historical AU – Tudor period, History of England, Hurt/Comfort, I am not kidding when I say the angst level in this is epic, Injury, Love at First Sight, M/M, Mycroft being a most decent big brother, Sherlock Whump, Tragedy, Witchcraft, alternate first meeting, history of medicine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-27
Updated: 2017-12-27
Packaged: 2019-02-22 16:22:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13170645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/J_Baillier/pseuds/J_Baillier
Summary: London, 1536. England awaits with bated breath the fate of Queen Anne Boleyn but, as physician John Watson is about to learn, hers is not the only tragedy unfolding at the Tower.





	To Be Prayed for While the World Doth Endure

**Author's Note:**

> Take heed of my content warnings, dearest reader.

 

 

 

> Thou saist, lord, who so knock,  
>  To them wilt thou attend.  
>  Undo, therefore, the lock  
>  And thy strong power send.  
>  _– Anne Askew: The Ballad_

 

Doctor John Watson dries his bloodied hands on a linen rag before his next patient is due. The July heat is smothering, which brings on boils and other bothers of pus. At least it means plenty of business for Harley Street's renowned physicians. He has not made as big a name for himself as others since much of his life had been spent in military service, so he had joined the practice of one Harley Street's most famous doctors, Simon Forman. In Watson's opinion his bedside manner is splendid, but his fascination with the occult a pastime both ridiculous and dangerous in this time and age.

He is about to invite the next patient in when there's an urgent knock on the door.

After Doctor Watson exclaims a permission to enter, a young boy who is most obviously a messenger steps in, carrying a sealed envelope. "From the Parham Estate, Sir, to be opened immediately."

"Who resides at Parham, boy?"

"Lord Mycroft Holmes, Sir. He be the sender."

"Him personally?"

The boy looks apprehensive.

"Lord Holmes?" The doctor presses further. "Does he not share a personal physician with the Duke of Suffolk? Has he grown dissatisfied with his services?"

"Sir I do not know, Sir."

"Never you mind, then." Watson gives the boy a coin for his troubles, which is pocketed carefully and eagerly.

Watson grabs a pen-knife from his desk and opens the message. The wording is simple but eloquent, requesting his services in exchange for a handsome fee. To be given further details, he is to meet someone at nightfall in an address at the Tower Hamlets he does not recognise. There are no great houses in that area apart from the castle, so a part of Watson is suspicious of the request – the message could easily be a ruse since he has not seen Lord Holmes' seal before and thus would not recognise a fake. There are rumours of murderers hunting for prey in the Tower Hamlets – _resurrectionists_ , these foul men are being called by the less civilised press. They would subdue travellers and sell the corpses to anatomists. Dreadful business, just dreadful. Then again, Watson's military experience has served him well in dealing with highwaymen and London's plentiful pickpockets and kidnapping a doctor is hardly the way to go if these resurrectionists wish to keep their sinister trade a secret.

He'll have to close his practice early today for this – the journey will take a while since he prefers to order the coach driver to avoid the Thames shores. The stench is foul this time of the year.

  
  
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The address turns out to be a lively tavern in an area where many of the dockworkers live. The stench of the river is faint but constant, and over the rooftops, John can see the soaring walls of the White Tower.

Now that he has found the right place, he has no further instructions at his disposal. He carries a leather bag containing a set of professional supplies, but he hadn't worn the clothes he usually does when catering to the needs of Harley Street's high-end clientele. Instead, he had decided to attempt to pass for a commoners' physician.

He enters the tavern, where most of the seats are already taken. A purchase of a pint of local ale is made, and Watson wonders if it's just his nerves making his suspicious or if the publican had scrutinised him more carefully than some of the other arriving patrons.

A man in a dark cloak, hood pulled up, sits by the counter. "There are seats in the stalls, _Doctor_ , if you wish to rest that leg," a gravelly voice speaks.

Watson frowns and curls his fingers around both his pint and his bag more tightly. He says nothing, simply makes his way to a stall in a darker corner, wondering if this stranger has deliberately kept it empty for a quiet conversation.

The remark about his leg makes him uneasy. It is a war wound that ails him, but on most days, he does not require the help of a cane. The warm summer has done marvels to his muscles, and he had believed the limp was no longer noticeable. Whoever this stranger is, they clearly know him.

Watson sits down, squares his shoulders, sips his dark and thick beverage, the flavour of which reminds him of the malty drinks his childhood nanny used to make.

Soon, the hooded stranger joins him, and since the stall hides his visage from the rest of the tavern, he drops the hood. Revealed is the face of a man in his late forties, already balding. He is neatly coiffed, and the sliver of collars visible under the cloak and the impressive collection of jewel-adorned rings establish him as a wealthy man. He carries himself with quiet authority. "I am grateful for your availability of such short notice, Doctor Watson."

"What shall I call you, Sir?" Watson hesitates briefly before adding the honorary. As a doctor, he has access to all echelons of society, and he was taught at home to bow to no man unworthy of his respect. In the army, that attitude had naturally been caned out of him, but now, back in London, he could choose who he associated with.

"You may call me Lord Holmes."

Watson nearly expunges some of the ale through his nose in surprise. He had hardly expected the man himself to meet with him in a lowly tavern on the docks. A friend, perhaps, or a high-ranking servant, but not someone who most likely spends their days in the inner circle of Henry's court.

"May I ask why you are seeking my services?" Watson asks when he has regained control over his faculties.

"You are a renowned medical military man seeking to build a lucrative practice in London. Your reputation is not grand enough yet that you fear for it so much that it would overrule your curiosity. What you have seen on the battlefields will have hardened you to sights that would trouble some of your colleagues who are more accustomed to the comforts their clientele ensures them."

"In other words, you need someone shady and with staunch nerves?"

"Your words, not mine, Doctor. It was also brought to my attention that you managed to embarrass General Thornbury in a most amusing and intelligent manner in your well-worded letter to The Times regarding the medical supplements every regiment should have at their disposal in marshlands. You have proven yourself quite fearless in the company of those of higher stature than you, and your wit – perhaps seldom employed when attending to the bunions of socialites – is well-honed. All qualities which the task at hand requires."

"I am flattered."

"This is not an attempt to appeal to your professional vanity, merely statement of fact. Which brings us to the business of this sordid day."

Watson shifts his pint of ale to the side.

"I have a younger brother, whose fate now rests in the hands of the Crown. He never learned enough verbal restraint to protect himself from those who seek to purge this country of all who do not meekly follow the whims of the king or who seek the enlightenment of science rather than the vague answers religion offers. A trial was held today, and the result surprised no one – the outcome was obvious before the proceedings had even begun. He has been declared a heretic and a danger to the Crown."

"What did he do?"

"Depending on who one consults, either very little or plenty. In public dialogue with his academic peers, he has challenged the ways in which things are taught, including the very notion that an Almighty God directs our fates and has set King Henry on the throne to guard his chosen kingdom."

Watson is almost convinced he can sense a slight edge of mockery in Lord Holmes' explanation – as though he might agree with his brother but is too sensible ever to utter such a lethal fact out loud.

"Perhaps the worst was when he got into an argument with a prospective clergyman, quoting that idiotic Lollard Tyndale who is appealing to the fact that all prophets wrote in their mother tongue in his argument that scripture could well be translated into English so the commonfolk could judge for themselves what the value of it is. My brother's interests lie in chemistry and medicine, the last developments of which he follows with a keen eye. Thus it is somewhat unsurprising that accusations of witchcraft have arisen against his person."

Watson cannot help scoffing. There have not been many witch trials in recent years, but the belief that such individuals live all around them is common among peasants, and even some of the Harley Street clientele have, on occasion, offered sorcery as an explanation for an ailment. Mass hysteria and superstitious poppycock, but denying the existence of occult forces is not something a decent, God-fearing man should do so John has kept his scepticism quiet.

"I doubt I need to explain the details of such preposterous rubbish. Some of it makes the crimes for which Joan Prentiss was hanged seem sane."

It had all happened before Watson had been born, but his father had a copy of the pamphlet detailing the case in his study, and it had been something he had quite enjoyed reading as a boy like he had enjoyed many a compendium of ghost stories. He knew well the story of the woman executed for suckling her satanic ferret familial. _The Examination and Confession of Certain Wytches at Chensforde_ was the name of the print. As a boy, he had not spared a thought to the loved ones of the group of women accused in that area back then. Now, he does as he listens to Lord Holmes recounting his story.

"The scaffolds are being erected, the publican says. Trials have been hastened so that they would not have to pay the executioners for several days' work. They say the queen is to be beheaded soon, and they intend to draw attention away from it with a spectacle of burning heretics. They do not have time to examine evidence, so they are employing----"

Lord Holmes pauses, heavy shadows of worry etched on his features.

He wouldn't even have to say it – Watson is well aware of what goes on in the Tower when a confession is not forthcoming. Everyone knows, especially since the fate of Lady Rochford has been an acute reminder to all of London.

"My stable boy knows a warden at Garden Tower; they are married to sisters. It is he who came to me with the news that the rack had been employed."

"I am sorry," Watson offers and means it.

"This is why I seek your aid, Doctor. I cannot save my brother – unless you count the fact that I have endangered my standing in the court by ensuring that he is hanged or beheaded instead of burned at the stake. I cannot save him, but by sending you to him I may offer him some comfort and help in his final hours. If the vague trickle of news I have managed to wring out from inside those walls is true, he may be suffering greatly."

Watson nods. He has not attended to anyone interrogated at the tower, but the royal physician who is privy to everything that goes on has often been an honoured guest at his employer's banquets, and has recounted to a curious crowd of his fellow physicians many descriptions of the particular injuries devices designed to bring forth confessions can produce. Watson cannot abide the man; he seems indifferent to the suffering of others and cares little for anyone or anything except for his payment and a chance to strut his expensive wardrobe in court.

"The political standing of my house is precarious as it stands. I cannot publicly defend my brother, nor can I even be shown to offer sympathy to him. I cannot go see him, and even if that were possible, it would not possess the skill set you have." The shadow on the Lord's face deepens as he speaks, as though a great pain is bleeding out. Watson feels a terrible twisting of empathy in his innards – the agony emanating from his summoner reminds him more of a parent's anguish over the death of a child than the contained sorrow of a brother. Watson has seen plenty of both during the epidemics that sweep through the crowded city like gusts of wind.

"What do you wish me to do?" Watson prepares to decline this assignment if it entails a position in the judiciary proceedings. Nobody is safe in these perilous times, when even a queen can be sent through the Traitor's Gate. No amount of money is worth risking a life for.

"I want you to go to the Tower, tonight. If the rumours are true that he is among tomorrow's lineup on Tower Green, he will be granted the customary audience of a last visit. No one will begrudge a physician for their duty to a patient, not even to someone whose morals have been called to question. You should explain your connection to be a childhood friendship; it should clear any assumption of association in recent times. I am aware you still risk a minor chink in your reputation for this, but I assure you the financial rewards will be supplemented with favour in the palace. A word whispered in the right ear, and you may find yourself a worthy rival to any candidate for the position of Royal Physician in a future where another ruler sits on the throne."

"Another ruler...?" Watson is taken aback. This sort of talk is what gets one's head propped up on a spike, and worse.

Lord Holmes leans slightly back in his chair, then glances around the supporting beams of the booth to make sure they are not being eavesdropped on. "I am not a conspirator so that you may rest easy, Doctor Watson. The king is not young, and the decline of his health due to his injury is a known fact."

Watson nods. He had asked his employer about the Parham Estate and its ownership along with some other prominent country houses to cast off the suspicion that he might have a special interest. Doctor Forman had recalled the king itself having said wonderful things about the boar hunting there, and that Lord Holmes was a worthy rival to Sir Thomas Audley for the position of Lord Chancellor if Sir Thomas More was to permanently fall out of the king's favour as was the rumour.

"How should I go about it, then?"

Hope flashes in the Lord's gaze, and it is the first time he has performed a slight smile during the conversation. "Have you been inside the walls of the Tower before, Doctor?"

"I have not."

"I have been informed by a reliable source that he's being held in the Beauchamp Tower, of which I am glad – it is said that the circumstances there are better than in some of the other prisoner quarters. Lady Rochford herself is under lock and key there."

Watson refrains from mentioning the rumour that Lady Jane Rochford had been driven insane by her interrogators.

"To get there, you must make your way from the main gate straight down along the river battlements to Traitor's Gate, then make a left and walk the Greene until you reach a grand tree in the courtyard. From there it is another left, and the tower should be right at your feet."

Watson made a mental note of this – through the main gate to Traitor's Gate, then a left, a left at the tree on Tower Green.

He rises to his feet, down the last of the flavourful ale and makes for the door.

"Doctor Watson?" Lord Holmes calls after him, having already donned the hood of his cape.

"Yes?"

"Please send him my condolences and my love. Please tell him---" the man's voice breaks, but only a little. Watson realises that plentiful practice in court intrigue has made this man a professional in concealing his sentiment.

"Please tell him that I am sorry – that not a day will pass when I shall not miss him terribly."

 

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The prescribed route is easy to follow even as the night dims and the torches on the sides of the Tower's heavy walls only offer patches of light. Watson almost shudders as he makes his way past the Traitor's gate, the murky waves of the Thames lapping the stone steps that mark the edge of the water and the courtyard underneath. Nary a soul who passes through this gate will walk as a free man or woman ever again. They say that Queen Anne was taken through these gates. She is somewhere in the Tower now, confined to her quarters and awaiting her fate.

Beauchamp Tower is not marked by a sign, but a guard he asks confirms it is the right one. A warden in the ground floor checks his books, confirming that a _William Sherlocke Holmes_ resides in one of the cells in the top floor. The warden appears slightly puzzled by John's arrival but does not question his further; instead, he grabs a candle and escorts him up.

Before a heavy oak door is opened, the warden addresses him. "We have no responsibility over your person while you visit. When you wish to leave, have a knock on the door. I shall post a yeoman outside."

"Thank you," Watson replies and prepares to enter. The warden does not follow him in, instead makes his way hastily down the steps.

The cell is not small, but the only furniture is a rough wooden bed without sheets or a mattress, a crudely carved chair and a small table. A rat scuttles over a toppled plate underneath it. A half-burnt candle is flickering in the draft from the small, barred windows, casting moving shadows on the walls. The light does not reach the bed, but Watson can just make out a shape stretched across it.

The air is suffocatingly stale, and it's surprisingly cold. The heavy stone walls seem to be emanating a chill not even the oppressive summer heat is capable of countering.

John puts his bag down on the floor, stomps his foot to scare off the rat and grabs the candle. He walks to the bed, places the candle on the floor and leans down on his haunches.

"Who are you?" a surprisingly sharp, low tone demands, and the man on the bed snaps his eyes open, attempting to lift his head but quickly giving up with a grunt of pain.

"My name is John Watson. I was sent by your brother."

"Shouldn't he be acquiring me a pardon like a proper big brother instead of dispatching strangers?"

"I'm a doctor. He has heard news of your condition." Since he has not examined the man yet, it is but an assumption that he's in need of aid, but Lord Holmes did not seem like a man who would believe rumours. No, he most likely has reason to believe the information is correct.

The man coughs. "Do your worst, then." He closes his eyes, chest heaving. Speaking seems to be uncomfortable or downright painful. "I know he can do little," he points out, and Watson is surprised at the lack of bitterness in the man's voice.

The doctor grabs the candle again and moves it in an arc next to the bed. His heart constricts as he takes in the sight. The young man, whose facial features are delicate and peculiar, has most handsome curly hair that is now caked with mud and dried blood. That same blood has soaked his thin linen shirt and the thin linen trousers he is wearing instead of the doublets John would have expected of a man of his stature. He is barefoot, his left ankle jutting out in an unnatural position. The skin of his wrists and his ankles has been chafed through by ropes, and his wrists are swollen and colourfully bruised. The shirt is slightly torn in the middle, revealing a row of puncture wounds.

"Novel feature on the rack, they say, designed for Lady Rochford. I was _lucky_ to be allowed to test it for her," the man says.

Watson wonders how on Earth the man could have known what he was looking at.

"The light pattern from the candle. You're leaning forward slightly, and I can feel the warmth from your arm above my shoulder, which much be because you are hesitating touching something. From that position, your fingers would only reach my chest out of all the visible injuries," the man explains quickly.

"What about your shoulders?" Watson knows what the rack can do: dislocate the shoulder joints by pulling the humerus out of its socket.

"They got what they wanted. No reason to go that far, although they are known to continue well past confession for their personal jest."

Watson swallows. "Your ankle is broken," he informs the man, who finally opens his eyes again. They are of strange colour, and particularly in candlelight, the precise shade is difficult to name. Watson is reminded of a rare, greyish sapphire Lady Stockton had been flaunting at a recent party.

"Thank you, Doctor, sound analysis, although I was hoping you would be capable of a higher level of thoroughness. They were dissatisfied with their results on the rack, so a maul was deemed pertinent."

Watson shakes his head, astonished how business-like a tone the man is using while discussing such things that would give even the most worldly men nightmares. He gently runs his fingers along the man's arms, looking for more fractures. There may well be broken bones in the wrists, but the swelling makes it difficult to say for sure. There is little he can do for them, but the ankle needs attention. "Sir, I need to reposition the ankle bones. It will hurt."

"I am no Sir. I am not _anything_ , anymore, so you may call me Sherlocke as those who care about me do. They are few and far between."

"Under the circumstances, you may do the same – call me John, I mean."

"I can see why my brother picked you."

Watson would have been very interested in the cause for such a remark, but there are more pressing matters at hand. He fetches his bag and digs out a small glass bottle. Carefully, he measures out a small amount of milky liquid on a small spoon he carries in one of the side pockets and offers it to the man. He hasn't raised his head from the bed once after he had first entered and does not make a move to take the medicine. Suspecting this may not be just petulance, John slides his palm underneath the sweaty curls and helps the man lift his head enough to ingest the contents of the spoon.

"Tincture of opium," John promises. "It will help with the ankle. We shall give it a moment to take effect."

The man – _Sherlocke_ , John corrects himself – grimaces at the bitter taste. "I assume you have met my brother, then? While he has no qualms about dispatching his vassals to do his bidding when it comes to matters of business, when his dealings are about me he usually attends in person."

"Yes. I admit I was quite surprised to meet him at a tavern."

A muted chuckle. "I'm sure he enjoys the occasional cloak-and-dagger routine. My brother would jump at a chance to run the Inquisition if that wouldn't entail having to sit in a church every day."

John refrains from commenting that judging by the grief caused by his younger brother's predicament, jesting about the Inquisition is in poor taste. He's beginning to get an inkling why Sherlocke may have found himself falling out of favour of the crown – he clearly doesn't know when not to unleash his acerbic tongue. "I have to ask---"

"No, you do not, but you _want_ to."

"Why? Why not protect yourself? Surely you realised that the things you have said in public could lead to this?"

"You sound like my brother with his lectures of morality."

"You're a man of principle, I understand that, but why risk your life?"

Sherlocke's pupils have constricted – the opium is slowly taking effect. "Because it is already forfeit."

John's brows raise.

"Consumption. I began coughing blood four months ago. It cannot be anything else – I saw a colleague of yours, and he confirmed it. Two scholars from the faculty have succumbed in the past year. If the sweating sickness isn't making the rounds or the bloody flux felling people, there's always good ole consumption making sure no one in this wretched town lives long."

"Does your brother know?"

"No. Not yet, I mean."

John moves the candle in an arc to assess the fracture lines in the bones. Relocation may lessen the pain and limit the swelling, but even well-splinted, it will not allow the patient to walk.

What does it matter if he walks or not? His fate is sealed, the confession done. Still, if John were the one detained for demise, he would want to walk to the scaffold instead of being carried like a weakling child. Then again, it is difficult to know how one would react in a situation such as Sherlocke's. John finalises his treatment plan and arranges the candle onto the side of the bed, careful not to knock it over. Then, he watches Sherlocke, who has turned away, biting his lip. Whether this is in physical or mental pain, John cannot tell.

There is a message he was to deliver, briefly forgotten but now pressing on his tongue before he focuses his efforts on his work again. "Your brother wishes you to know---" John starts.

Sherlocke's head snaps back, and the man glowers at John. "Oh, do spare me and your breath! Any sentiment of his at this point is habitual."

Having seen the pain on Lord Holmes' features first hand, John disagrees silently. The younger brother's dismissive bitterness is understandable, but it does not diminish the importance of the Lord's words. "Surely you understand his reasoning that one death, if avoidable, is better than two." Suddenly, John is disgusted with himself. How could he ever argue to a man condemned that his death is, in any way, a _good_ or the _better_ option? Who would care at this stage?

Strangely enough, the anger seems to dissipate from Sherlocke. "He would always put House and Crown first, as any decent Englishman would. Even before his own life, although he believes that preserving it will benefit the first two. I do understand him, yes, and I agree. In his stead, I would not be so great a man at this hour."

"Not a lot of people would. He says he will miss you, most dreadfully."

Sherlocke's breath seems to hitch, and he averts his eyes from John again, pinching them momentarily shut as though trying to gain control of his faculties. He leans against the stone wall.

"John--- will you do me a favour?" he asks, and opening his eyes again seems to require effort.

"Of course, if I can." He stands up and turns away from Sherlocke, preparing to grab hold of the ankle. He will want to be quick and precise, and he knows he can since broken ankles were not an uncommon sight on the battlefields.

"There are letters I have written – I no longer can, of course--" Sherlocke points out forlornly and raises his hands, inspecting his swollen, mauled wrists.

John makes use of his attention being directed elsewhere and grabs the ankle. He relocates the bones with a sickening crunch and a wail from his patient, who in their agonised panic claws at his arm.

"My apologies. The pain should lessen after I splint it." He retrieves four arrow shafts from his bag and rolls of torn shreds of cotton, which he uses to wrap the ankle and the fasten the shafts between the middle layers. "So, you decided that it was no longer worth it to censor your thoughts since you received that diagnosis?"

"Very astute. It was quite liberating, no longer having to bite one's tongue while listening to idiots spouting nonsense all day. This will be faster."

John looks up just as he's tying the final knot. "You didn't do this... deliberately?"

"I am dying, not stupid," Sherlocke replies indignantly. "I was aware of the possibility of legal consequences. The witchcraft aspect I did not anticipate, and even more regrettably, my willingness to admit to everything did not satisfy their thirst for cruelty. I had heard rumours of the ways of the newly appointed head of the Cardinal's Enquiry but chalked them up to the commonfolk's propensity to sensationalise. Perhaps I should have listened more carefully."

John has heard those rumours, too. According to them, the man in question – Marquess of Waterford James Moriarty – longs for the days of Catholic reign and has kept up the finest traditions of the Inquisition in his work making sure all the king greatly disliked were found suitably guilty of whatever preposterous accusations might be flung at them.

Sherlocke sighs. "Still, in this way, the end will come more swiftly. I was not looking forward to a slow, agonising decline bedridden at Parham while having to watch my brother wringing his hands. However, the witchcraft angle is unfortunate," he muses. "The manner of death---" his voice is quieter now, fear creeping in.

"Your brother says there'll be a beheading or a hanging," John hastily says. What a world in which such a thing is offered as _consolation_. He shakes his head.

"Not such a useless big brother, after all. He may think I never outgrew being a skelpie-limmer, but he has his uses. I am not important enough for a beheading, and good executioners are hard and expensive to come by."

"How do you find breathing?" John asks, returning to routine.

"Bearable."

John gently lifts the blood-soaked shirt, runs his fingers along the bruises, the superficial puncture wounds, then assist his patient in turning slightly to his side, facing the wall so that he can have a look at the back. Fresh whip marks crisscross the pale skin. Sherlocke is terribly gaunt as is common with consumption – by the time the blood begins coming up in the sputum, the disease is often well on its way to ravaging the entire body, bringing on night sweats, lethargy, a general malaise and banishing the appetite. There is no cure, as is the case with so many of the plagues and troubles that can easily end the lives of children and adults alike. There is so much they do not yet know about these things, and it is why John has always been drawn to treating the victims of injuries and accidents – they present with relatively easily diagnosable, mechanical problems.

The next thing he retrieves out of his bag is a glass bottle of spiritus fortis and some clean pieces of cloth. He cleans the wounds on Sherlocke's chest, eliciting winces whenever the alcohol stings. Infection seems almost inevitable in these conditions, but it will not have time to set in. What he's doing will do little to help this man, but it still feels important that he does his absolute best. It is not just because he is paid to do so and his oath compels him, but because he finds this young man intriguing and his fate a terrible waste of human intelligence.

"I was expecting newt eyes and leeches, judging by the usual level of competence of the doctors in London," Sherlocke points out, raising his torso by leaning on his forearms to watch John work.

"Wouldn't such things be more your business, _witch_?" John teases.

"Quacksalver," Sherlocke teases with a slight quirk of his lip.

John laughs, the sound of it echoing in the desolate darkness of the cell. For a moment, the shadows seem less oppressive, the night less lonely.

"I still find it strange, that just words spoken in an argument could be evidence enough for a conviction of heresy."

"Don't forget treason, witchcraft and sodomy, although the latter is mostly an attempt of the accuser trying to throw suspicion off himself. It is plain as day to anyone with half a cerebrum that he has been sharing the bed of one of the court musicians."

"Didn't they connect one of them to Queen Anne?" John asks and bites his lip as he has nothing better to cover Sherlocke's chest with than the disgusting, ripped shirt.

"The very same, though I doubt the queen got around that much."

"The tincture you gave me seems functional. Shame I have not discovered its fine qualities earlier."

"There are men whose lives become ruled by it. It is quite treacherous."

"There are men whose lives become ruled by women, wine, other men, wealth or power. We all have our sirens. What is yours, John?" Sherlocke's voice is thick with warmth from the opium. It has been known to loosen the tongue.

"Maybe I have not lived long enough to learn what it is."

"You have lived long enough to know better than to answer mysterious summons into slums after leaving behind an army career in favour of a safe, boring life serving the neglectable medical needs of the ladies of the court."

"I am a free man to seek a bit of change."

"No wife, then, no children? I can see no ring."

"There was a young lady, once. She became engaged to another when I served in Scotland. Died of childbed fever." He expects Sherlocke to say he's sorry, but this odd young man who seems to abhor social mores says nothing. "What about you?"

"Ladies are not my area, young or otherwise."

There is no reply John can come up to suit such a strange statement.

He finishes his examination in silence and helps Sherlocke sit up. He is complaining of pain in his lower back, and John diagnoses a fracture of a backbone. It does not threaten the feeling or the work of muscles in his legs, so it must be benignly located. He cannot raise his arms above his shoulders which is likely due to tendons being stretched or bruised. John shudders as he imagines the amount of pain such torture would have produced. "Did you not pass out during the interrogation?"

"These... _men_ \---" Sherlocke spits out the word like a curse, "are skilled in their chosen profession. They know the limits of endurance, and keep the proceedings well within the range of what one can put up with awake."

"It angers and frightens me how little evidence or proof is required these days for a conviction. They have practically nothing on you apart from the word of someone you disagreed with!"

Sherlocke lets out a hollow laugh. "Whatever would a court do with evidence? It would only interfere with their processes. Besides, they _may_ have found out about the corpse."

John blinks. "What _corpse_?"

"Rest easy, Doctor. Legally acquired – well, if not legally then at least nobody was using it. Unclaimed from the morgue, it served an important purpose in the furtherment of science. Are you familiar with the pioneering works of Vesalius?"

John is. A Flemish anatomist who was rumoured to be working on a grand encyclopedia of the structures of the human body had been rumoured to acquire his study materials in a questionable manner. He was already a famous teacher of anatomy, whose unquestionable achievements had kept him from getting into trouble with the law. Vesalius was apparently of the persuasion that dissection was the best manner in which to train surgeons and to educate physicians. In John's thinking, the notion did have some merit, but it did not erase the problem of the resurrectionists.

"How far did you get with it?" John asks.

"I was in the process of naming some intriguing structures in the heart ventricles no one has reported having studied in depth before. I suspect the police may have removed the corpse by now so that will all have been a formidable waste of time since I did not get to publish my findings."

John stands up straight, glances out the window at the crescent moon. He has done what he can and has little reason to remain here. Still, he feels guilty for thinking of leaving.

In some strange way, he senses that his patient does not want him to depart, either.

"The letters are on the table," Sherlocke says, flexing the fingers of his swollen right hand.

John carries the candle so that he can read the names on the envelopes. There are only two of them; one addressed to _Mycroft_ and one to a _Madam Hudson_.

"My landlady. She has shown me more kindness than I to her. She shall have my belongings."

John thinks it sad that these are the only two people Sherlocke has had something to say to at this point in his life. He must have written the letters soon after being brought here since after the rack his wrists would have made picking up a pen impossible.

John slides the envelopes into his bag. He does not know Madam Hudson's address, but Lord Holmes is bound to have it. "I will personally make sure these get delivered."

"Thank you."

John doesn't pick up the candle again. Instead, he leans his palms on the worn surface of the table. Its legs are uneven, and it sways under his weight. He should be eager to leave, to head home for a meal and his own comfortable bed. A friend had mentioned possibly calling on him later tonight if an urgent operation would happen in a timely manner. There would be herb wine and a log fire, and it would be quite pleasant.

Usually. Not tonight. Tonight, if he indulged in such a frivolity, all he could think about would be a lonely prison cell in this bleak place, and its lonely occupant huddled on a hard plank bed in pain.

"Will you sit with me?" Sherlocke asks quietly. "Will you, John?"

"Yes." The word is out before John even has time to consider his answer.

He goes to sit on the bed, placing the candle at their feet. He watches the young man in the warm, yellow, flickering light. He has once been beautiful – yes, that is the word, never mind if it is one usually reserved for womenfolk – but the consumption has hollowed his cheeks and stolen the glow from his complexion. John tries to imagine him walking the streets of London – or perhaps Cambridge or Oxford, depending on where he had received his academic training. He belongs in grand halls, in lush gardens, not this hell of cold stone and a death sentence over his head. John wonders what inventions this person could have come up with, had life allowed him to continue his scientific career. 

Sherlocke suspends his hands in the air above his knees, shakes them. They are so swollen that the skin on his knuckles is cracking, exuding liquid. "I played the violin," he says in the tone one recites eulogies.

John hates the past tense; truly abhors it. He thinks of young men dead on the battlefield, dying far from home fighting for the honour and rule of someone they had never even met. Is it not better to die for someone one truly believes in?

No. There is no glory in death and suffering.

"It is what it is," Sherlocke says, interrupting John's bitter thoughts.

"Cockbollocks and rubbish is what it is," John replies.

"Plague take the whole lot of bobolynes and harecops," Sherlocke agrees.

Silence takes over. It appears Sherlocke has grown too exhausted to converse, or he is very thoughtful.

Then, a head of blackish curls descends on John's shoulder.

"Unless you take offence?" Sherlocke asks. John cannot see his face, but his tone is tentative, almost shy.

"I do not." The gesture could be odd, but in this place, in such circumstances, John only regrets that this may be the extent of the comfort he can offer. Then, an idea occurs. He leans forward, taking turns curling an arm around Sherlocke's shoulders to support him as he shrugs out of his outer coat. It is dark blue, with red embroidery around the buttonholes. He wraps it tightly around Sherlocke's thin frame. "They let you wear what you choose to the gallows. Your brother may deliver something, but at least you'll have this."

He doubts Lord Holmes will risk further harm to his reputation by even such a small gesture. These are most dangerous times. If the queen dies tomorrow, there may be riots. A good opportunity for political dissent and intrigue, and he wouldn't be surprised if a usurper appeared to threaten Henry's reign.

Sherlocke's swollen, clumsy fingers grip the fur edges of the coat, and he presses his face into it briefly as though inhaling the scent. "Lavender."

"My housekeeper insists on it. Says it keeps the plague vapours out."

"I have always been partial to lavender," comes to reply. Sherlocke rearranges himself on the bench so that he can press his cheek on the front side of John's shoulder. He closes his eyes and after a few moments his breathing evens, becomes deeper. Drowsiness is one of opium's more favourable side effects. John wonders if it is wrong for the drug to be stealing some of the man's remaining minutes, but a careful lean forward and a glance at the man's expression absolves his actions: for the first time he does not appear to be battling pain and exhaustion. Instead, he looks younger, less pale, calm, content.

Sherlocke's death will be merely a side note, another pebble crushed under the wheels of politics. John swallows, a useless tear making its way down past his cheek as he watches the sleeping man.

Minutes must have turned into an hour while John lets him rest. Eventually, there is a sharp knock on the door and candlelight shines through the keyhole in the door. "Doctor? Warden says visitors out. There are preparations that need to be done for tomorrow."

John extricates himself, gently lowers Sherlocke onto the bed and hopes that he will not wake up. A goodbye would feel like torment, because in a way, John would be saying it on behalf of everyone this young man will never get to meet.

He collects his bag, walks to the door. He can see that the guard has shifted to the opposite side of the antechamber to smoke a pipe.

He steals one more glance towards the sleeping form on the bed and is startled to find that Sherlocke is on his side now, head raised. In the dark, he can't see his face.

"John?" Sherlocke calls out to him.

John's throat is dry, and no word comes out that he can think of.

"Do you think we shall ever live in a time where men enjoy freedoms of speech and opinion and may live in a manner of their own choosing?" Sherlocke asks in a distracted voice.

"I hope so. I sincerely do hope so. Not that I believe that individuals who go against the powers-that-be or break norms will ever be accepted, as are those who conform."

"I will not see such a day, nor will you."

"No," John confirms and then has to turn away because he is suddenly gripped by the overpowering realisation that, come tomorrow, this man will not be here anymore. It is not his habit to be so affected by his patients, but only a monster would not be affected by the fate of a young man whose life and youth are wasted and broken in a prison cell and then extinguished like a candle as a mob of beings of much lesser intelligence cheers on? No, he would not be any better than them if he did not feel terribly sorrowful for Sherlocke.

A part of him is tempted to bring out the bottle of opium from his bag and to give all of it to Sherlocke, but the foul play would be evident, and they would both lose their lives. Something tells him Sherlocke would also realise this and would decline.

Yet, there is an option----

He glances at the guard who still seems to be ignoring him. He drops his bags, rummages around for the opium and hurries back to Sherlocke.

"When they unlock the door to escort you to the---- You take this. _All_ of it. You should still be standing by the time the sentence has been read, but even if you aren't, they will chalk it up to nerves. It will be easy. It will be painless."

He shoves the bottle into the hidden pocket in the inseam of the coat still draped around Sherlocke.

He then lets his hand fall. Their eyes meet: Sherlocke's, sleep-dimmed and defeated.

"I will be there," John whispers. "So help me God, I will stand there tomorrow since your brother cannot." He had only thought that an oblivion that would hasten the end is all that he could offer, but there is more: he can be a friendly face in the crowd even if nightmares of it may plague him for the rest of his life. It is a small price to pay for getting to keep his life while Sherlocke loses his own.

"I will be there. Don't look at them, none of them, you hear me! _Keep your eyes fixed on me._ I will be your friend, and I will be with you at the end."

Sherlocke nods.

 

-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-

 

It is Sunday, and the dove-grey skies are unleashing a downpour on all of London.

The crowd on Tower Green is thin, most having left after the spectacle of Queen Anne. Her blood still stains the scaffold, swirling down one of the wooden poles like a reddish snake slithering away. Back into the ground.

The cheers had died down after the head had rolled. Death is sobering, even when expected.

For most of the crowd, what happens next is just an afterthought, a meaningless addendum to the main event.

Sherlocke is carried to the gallows in a litter chair. He cannot walk, of course he cannot, not with such devastating injuries. What little light John had found in his gaze the night before is dimmed, but he attempts to hold his head high as the crowd begins to part to give way to the procession. Now, in the light of day, John sees him properly and tries not to think that the first time shall be his only, before this gruesome and unworthy method of death distorts, vandalises and sullies his beautiful features.

The younger man has not spotted him yet, but John cannot tear his eyes away. For a moment, John can so easily see him in his mind's eye far away from here, in summertime, walking a garden path with a book in hand, leaning over an astrolabe in a university hall, laughing with his cheeks burning with life and delight after a few chalicefuls of fine wine. Those china-like cheekbones caressed by some gentle hand, those lithe fingers entwined between another's or coaxing sounds out of an instrument.

The unfairness of it all makes him wants to tear down the king's flag, break the pole upon his knee and throw the pieces into the Thames.

The guards drape Sherlocke's gaunt arms upon their shoulders and drag him up to the scaffold, the hard edges of the quickly and shoddily constructed steps drawing blood from his shins. John barely suppressed his tears at the sight of Sherlocke's head – those cherubic curls have been crudely shaved off as is the custom, leaving his scalp bleeding at spots framed by tufts of short-cropped hair. He can barely stand while the sentence is read and John prays that his medicine does its deed soon, that it had not been discovered and confiscated.

Standing between a young woman in a white bonnet and a stained linen dress and a man in similarly tattered garb, Sherlocke looks out of place in John's velvet coat.

Now, finally, he finds John in the crowd. He stares, perhaps in surprise and disbelief, perhaps because he still remembers the instructions he had been given. John pushes through the crowd right to the front. Could he reach up high enough, he would reach out an arm. Were he a more God-fearing man, he would have asked what favour he could right now, forfeit the fortune perhaps reserved for himself just to spare both of them from what will soon come to pass. If this life about to be snuffed out cannot be spared, then at least let it end without agony, for there has already been so much of it. Sometimes, as a mercy, the guards allow others to pull on the legs of those being hung so that the end would come swiftly instead of a long struggle. John would, _by God he would_ if that is what he shall need to do since there is no one else.

Why this stranger? Why would a less than a night spent sitting vigil beside him affect John so? And how can he be as certain as he is that their strange meeting has made such an impression on both of them?

They lock gazes, drinking in the sight of each other in the mere seconds they must only have left. The rest of London falls away.

' _You came'_ are the only words those lips with a perfect cupid's bow form, and even though the message is silent, John can read it, can be certain of its content. He replies nothing, because not even the words of poets could convey the tragedy of this moment, and stealing away a man's final words is surely equal to a mortal sin.

Shivering in the rain, John watches as pupils constrict, knees buckle and finally, eyes turn heavenward, unseeing. Sherlocke is unconscious as the noose is fitted.

John's tears race with the weeping heavens. He should walk away, he could leave now, his work is done but he won't.

Cannot.

He holds his breath as Sherlocke draws his last.

"We will not see such a day," John whispers to the rain.

 

**––– The End –––**

 

 

* * *

 

 

**AUTHOR'S NOTES**

The idea for this AU came to me over a year ago. I was trying to find a title for what eventually became The Breaking Wheel, and the research containing rather disturbing medieval torture practices somehow popped an image in my head of Moriarty the Head Inquisitor of England. (I'd been binge-watching The Tudors around that time.) I was absolutely convinced that I was very much the wrong author for anything like that, so I pitched it to another writer who was clever to realise the massive amount of research this would involve in the idea's original form, so all parties involved ran away like King Arthur in Monty Python's Holy Grail. Then, I wrote another AU in which I managed to tell a story of some scope in very compact form and suddenly, it hit me how this one needs to go, even if the idea of the ending devastated me. It still does.

A note on the language used: I have used some terms and details my background research produced to add some Tudorian flair, but I cannot even attempt to properly emulate the way people wrote or spoke in those days. They wouldn't probably understand a word of this... The challenge of the language and the fact that I really wouldn't want to make mistakes when depicting English history in a fandom centred on a very English original text were the reasons why I was initially so reluctant to do this. So, you may chalk any blunders up to me being an ignorant foreigner. And, by all means, do educate me. I find the Tudor period fascinating, and the Tower is one of my favourite places in London. (Thys is the best I could have donne, had I attempteth the emulate the language of those tymes. Don't ever put me in charge of such things; it would turn into a parody.)  
  
Prisoners who were executed by hanging were sometimes allowed the mercy of friends and family pulling on their legs to hasten death.  
  
The term 'resurrectionist' didn't seem to be used as early as when this happens, but it fit the story, so I tweaked things a bit. I am also not convinced that Vesalius' fame had reached England by the time Anne Boleyn was executed. The case and the pamphlet concerning Joan Prentiss and the accusations against her are facts, unfortunately. The person Anne Boleyn was suspected of having an affair with was court musician Mark Smeaton. He confessed to an affair with Boleyn and was executed, but it has been speculated that he may have actually been gay and having an affair with George Boleyn instead.

Bobolyne and harecop are ye olde English synonyms for idiot. Cockbollocks was my invention.

Anne Boleyn was beheaded by a swordsman specially brought in from Calais – an expensive form of execution, it was usually reserved for nobility. Commoners were most often hanged. Burning at the stake was usually reserved for heretics and witches although some traitors of the crown were executed in that manner as well. Burning at the stake was one thing I really, really didn't want to have to depict.

Harley Street became a hub of private medical practices much later than the timeframe in which this story happens, so its use here is purely for plot purposes, not for historical value. Doctor Simon Forman was a real person, and equally real were his strange practices, including using astrology in diagnostics.

Beauchamp tower still stands and can be visited at The Tower. It was built in the late 13th century and was used extensively to house prisoners of rank. It borrows its name most likely the third Earl of Warwick, of the Beauchamp family, who was imprisoned there. Lady Jane Rochford, whose testimony was instrumental in bringing about the death sentences of both Anne Boleyn and Katherine Howard, was tortured in the tower. Even though the Tower is famous for its bloody history and collection of torture paraphernalia, torture did not seem to have been employed as extensively or for as long as is often assumed.

Parham is one of England's most handsome country houses. It was used by 7PercentSolution as the childhood home of Sherlock and Mycroft in her stories since the canon concerning their family background was revealed in the series. When it comes to Sherlock's past, I am far from the only one to prefer Seven's version.

The sweating sickness, English sweate, sudor anglicus, is still a bit of a mystery, but it seemed to have quite a high mortality rate. Consumption is tuberculosis. Childbed fever was a gynaecologic infection that took the lives of many women, included queen Jane Seymour.

The Lollards were a pre-Protestant religious movement which existed from the mid-14th century to the English Reformation. William Tyndale was one of its key figures.

A skelpie-limmer is an old synonym for a badly-behaved child.

The title of the story comes from Tudor poet Anne Askew: she is the only woman on record known to have been both tortured in the Tower of London and burnt at the stake.

Last, but not least: why on Earth the spelling with an e? Well, because of the Sherlock Bayeux Tapestry of course obviously, which has been making me laugh for years now (causing concerned frowns in my spouse because "nothing can possibly be that funny for that long").

**Author's Note:**

> Some [related photoshoppery by me](http://jbaillier.tumblr.com/post/169007795880/new-story-out-at-ao3-christmas-is-over-so-a). How convenient that _The Other Boleyn Girl_ exists.


End file.
